A Degree of Perfection
by Sojourney
Summary: Death the Kid had a lot of unusual habits.


Death the Kid had a lot of unusual habits.

Sometimes they made sense to the people who witnessed them and could be understood by friends and strangers alike, but other times the habits proved themselves incomprehensible to everyone, including those closest to the young reaper. Death City as a whole had (somewhat) learned to tolerate these behaviors... or at least, they respected Lord Death enough as their patron not to say anything (for the most part) whenever his son started on a new fixation.

For example, no one had protested when Kid has started showing up on people's doorsteps and demanding that he be allowed to mow their yards so that they all had perfect 45° angles. Gallows Manor always had perfectly manicured lawns and if even a small amount of that perfection could be imparted on others' green spaces while simultaneously saving themselves a chore, the population welcomed it. When Kid started taking an unnerving interest in the streetlights that lined the winding roads that made up the city's unusual elevation, people raised their eyebrows and lowered their voices, but ultimately decided that immaculate glass faces on the old-fashioned lamps weren't something worth raising a fuss about.

When he started breaking into people's homes to check on whatever latest fixation had taken hold of his mind, the citizenry put its collective foot down.

"Kid," Shinigami said, hastily intercepting the punch his son had been about to give himself in the face with one giant cushioned hand. One of Kid's golden eyes was ringed in a fantastic black and purple bruise and from the eight mirrors surrounding the boy, the elder reaper almost dreaded to ask. "What are you doing?"

"Giving myself a second black eye to match this one," Kid said, pulling ineffectually at his hand to free it from Shinigami's grasp, starting a bunch of sentences at the same time in an effort to parse his jumbled thoughts. His fervent rooting through a teen's sock drawer had resulted in a shriek and a hurled alarm clock (the old kind, with the heavy metal clangers on the top) with the power and precision of an Olympic shot-put and struck him in the face. "Father, _please _let go! That girl— she threw a— I was busy fixing— it was really important—"

"_Kid_," Shinigami said with a bit more urgency this time. "It's all right. I don't want you hurting yourself, even if it's just a bruise."

Especially, the elder reaper thought, because he knew it wouldn't stop at just bruises. There was the very real, very probable possibility that it if allowed to run unchecked, that tendency would never ever stop.

The child sagged in his grasp. "But the _socks_..." he whined, and his breath hitched. It wasn't until the tension in his slender form dissipated that Shinigami released him and set him carefully down on the bed again. "I don't understand, Father. Why aren't people happy that I want to help them? Isn't that what we're supposed to do?"

"Ye~ee~es," Shinigami hedged, drawing the affirmation out with reluctance. "But Kid, you have to understand that it's their right to make mistakes sometimes... even if it's something like their socks."

"Why?" was the aghast reply, as Kid stared at him in something approaching abject horror.

For all his maturity despite his few years, Shinigami's mask grimaced, Kid was not ready for that depth of conversation on free will and so he patted the boy on the head, though took care not to muss too many of the strands. "It's just one of those things," he said cheerfully. "You'll have to trust me on that one. You can do that, right?"

Kid quivered, as though physically being pulled by the urges to resume his obsession and obedience to his parent. Finally, dredged from the depths, he managed a faint, "Yes Father. Of course I trust you."

"Good boy," Shinigami said, letting the relief he felt be covered by his usual jovial tone. "And in the morning, I believe it'd go a long way if you went and apologized to that young lady who you disturbed tonight with your, ah, project."

The boy opened his mouth to protest that _he_ was the one sporting the black eye and that _she _could have at least yelled first like any reasonable person awoken by an intruder in their room, but the way his father was looking at him made Kid feel as though declining the suggestion would be a disappointment — and that was worse that the broken balance of the household.

"I will," he replied instead and swallowed. "Yes. That's... a good idea, Father. I'll do that."


End file.
